Logs:Joy springs all radiant in my breast; Though pauper poor, than king more blest,

Joy springs all radiant in my breast; Though pauper poor, than king more blest,
Dramatis Personae Kitty, B, Hive, Jax, Tag 🤨, Fury, Ryan, Alma, Charles, Scott, FitzSimmons
In Absentia Blink, Taylor, Tag, Lucien, Dawson	summer solstice '23 / jax's 31st birthday "Eat! Drink! Be Merry!" (Jax's birthday party part 1-- followed by dancing, deliberating, and drama.)
Location <NYC> Rooftop - SHIELD HQ - Times Square
There's an unexpected oasis at the top of this gleaming high-rise, the whole of it carpeted in thick, soft, layered ground cover of sedums, grass, and moss. A small, carefully manicured grove serves as the centerpiece, with benches, tables and chairs scattered around in the shade. Beside it, a professionally landscaped garden boasts a pond and quite a few planters that either used to hold plants or still hold dying ones. The greenhouse is somewhat sparsely and eclectically populated with tropical plants, flanked by garden beds even more sparsely planted. An open lawn on the side overlooking Times Square makes a great spot for a picnic. The otherwise unsightly structure housing the roof access, a single stall bathroom, and tool shed has been covered on three sides with turf and shaped into a little promontory offering a breathtaking view of the city. The peace of the rooftop has been Rapidly Disrupted -- fifteen minutes ago, some SHIELD staffers were enjoying an early supper under the balmy light of the solstice sun. Now -- Well. The lawn has mostly disappeared under the newly assembled raised stage, wires for lighting and sound systems running through the grass to generators that definitely do not belong to SHIELD. The tables have been commandeered as food and drink stations, the promontory as the drop-off spot for guests arriving via Various Modes of Flight instead of signing in on the ground floor of the building. And there are so many guests already, people from all over the city, not just Jackson Holland's large collection of personal friends -- a collection of bikers in MMMC cuts, artists still with paint stains on their hands, teenagers who probably should still be up at Westchester and definitely didn't sign out, mutant musicians with guitars strapped to their backs. The chatter through the soundcheck is not so loud yet, but the volume is slowly rising. At one of the commandeered tables, Kitty is fussing with a huge water jug and stacks of paper cups. "-- Do you," she's asking earnestly, dipping her cup into the jug and pulling it out full of water as she does so, "know where I can get another trash can? I don't think we brought enough and Blink is really due for a break." Next to her, Leo Fitz's eyes are bugging out of his skull, staring at Kitty's immaterial hand. Blinks once, twice. "...Sorry, what did you say?" He is probably still not listening. In the background of the cheerful chatter there's a quiet droning hum, one tiny blue-and-silver hoverbike floating up to hover just over SHIELD's rooftop. In addition to the many other regulatory transgressions happening, B is not currently wearing her usual sharktooth helmet -- just a tight silvery-mesh tee shirt, fairly see-through over a lacy black halter crop underneath, a pleated miniskirt in black and silver, and very stompy metallic boots with matching wristcuffs. She has her Mongrels cut over top; her claws and the slender dotted liner limning her enormous eyes are actively glowing in a slightly luminescent silvery-blue. "Have fun!" she's chirruping to the pair of (definitely not signed out!) X-Kids she lets off, who are promptly scampering off to explore the Drinks Options while they think enough adults are looking the other way that they can maybe sneak some booze. B is definitely not sneaking booze, but ze is taking a short break from ferrying duty to scarper off hirself, in order to locate Jax so that ze can deliver a quick hug to the Birthday Boy Dad. By dint of being connected at the brain, Hive has already found the birthday boy. Hive is slouched on a picnic bench, leaning against the table with a droopy-lidded expression that suggests he might already be half asleep despite the ongoing commotion. He's sipping on a lemonade, looking mostly drab in faded old jeans and a grey tee shirt with 'BLUE SUN|蓝日' printed on it in bold blue text, the brightest color to his attire the ornate and vivid multicolored spiral horns someone has affixed to his head. Despite this signifier that he is Probably A Volunteer, by all appearances he is doing Absolutely Nothing Useful through the hectic party deployment -- only the crew ferrying up excited would-be attendees from many many many floors below can hear his occasional commentary: << Not that one, he's a reporter. >> << Yeah those kids are good. >> << That's just some-ass tourist they'd freak the fuck out when they saw Taylor. >> ... okay, only Jax and the transport crew can hear the mental commentary. Right now Hive is directing a question to Jax, slightly judgmental: << ... that asshole tried to tank your fucking art show do you really want him here? >> Highlit in their mind, a skinny pink-haired Chimaera punk waiting eagerly for a ride below. His chin lifts jerkily when B arrives, a quiet warmth softening his mental irascibility. << Hive that was like, sophomore year of college. >> Jax's amusement is bright at Hive stealing this long-since-dead grudge. Beside the telepath he's brighter, more dapper than his usual daily wear in a bright white dress shirt with a shimmering gold tie and a vest so black that the gold embroidered solar motifs on it appear to be floating in a void, plain front trousers in the same uncanny black, cinched with a golden belt, and gold wingtip derby shoes with broguing in abstract solar patterns. Somewhere along the way of setup his surprise has given way to delight mingled with a vague sort of surreality; at this point he is just rolling with Whatever This Party Is. He's perched on the edge of the picnic table though he bounces up to return B's hug fierce and hard. "Sugar, how long y'all been working this out, this is nonsense." Tag is just hopping down from the back of a second gleaming hoverbike -- less eye-catching than Jax, more eye-catching than Hive, he's in a rainbow midi skirt and a loosely cropped tee in sky-blue with a bright sun shining out from behind puffy white clouds. "Happy birthday!" << oh no is it happy it's probably not happy -- no wait we're making it happy. >> He's joined the line for HUGS while it's still short, and drapes an elbow against Hive's shoulder after he's dispensed Hug to Jackson. "More time than you think," he says with a fey smile, "and less time than we should have. Ryan's money makes a lot of things move faster, though!" A knot of partygoers lately emerged from a glowing purple portal are gazing about in delighted disorientation. At the gruff order to "make a hole!" from somewhere beyond them -- one of the proper access stairwells, concealed in the artificial promontory -- they hastily part to make way for one S.H.I.E.L.D. Director Nicholas J. Fury. << ...shit, and I thought he had Security eating outta his hand before that Heidlage business... >> His disorientation seems somewhat less delighted, his black duster fluttering in breeze and his single eye fixed balefully on Jax as he trundles up to the picnic table. "Mister Holland," he begins, in a note of long-suffering exasperation, "it might have escaped your notice, but you are in fact still under US federal detention by UN proxy. You can't invite a dozen..." His eye flits around the ground and he quails inwardly, just a little. "...hundred some folks up where without sending 'em through security. That's for your protection much as anyone else's!" "He's very detained!" B protests, clawed hand gesturing insistently in her father's direction. "Plus he didn't invite anyone, he didn't even know about all this, you can't be mad at him. His friends," her immense black eyes are very-very big with this assertion as she briefly turns over Long Hours Of Raid Planning in her mind, "are pretty good at keeping secrets." "I think he's practiced at being mad at anything." Hive is still sipping slowly at his lemonade. His voice comes out gruff, despite the clear amusement Jax can feel in their mind. "Part of the aesthetic. -- Would you really have let all these motherfuckers through security?" His eyes are skating sidelong to where one skinny teenager with coke-bottle glasses is trying hard to impress their friends by (after being summarily rebuffed by the current bartender who is, in fact, carding for the pop-up open bar) turning their cups of water into beer. << We've got security handled, >> his mental voice is an unsettling thing, an eerie susurrus that rustles through Fury as well as the others immediately nearby with the overlapping cadences of hundreds-of-voices whispering at once -- the odd effect it gives should probably be more suited to a ghost story, a prophesy from the past, something of more import than: << enjoy the fucking booze. >> "If you didn't detain him so well we wouldn't have had to bring the party here!" Tag is only straightening very slightly at Fury's approach, and mostly only to better turn a brighter smile up to the much taller man. Fury's eyepatch, meanwhile, is growing a stylized iridescent sunburst pattern to offset All The Black. "I ain't going nowhere," Jax promises Fury, drawing a small X over his heart as he says it. "And I surely have noticed. -- Only person I invited..." He trails off, here, his single eye scrunching up along with his nose as he scans the growing crowd. "... ain't here, actually. Guess all these folks is my consolation prize. Did you want cake? There's good cake." Fury clenches his jaw a little tighter. "Keeping secrets," he echoes, skepticism carved deep into his voice and his brow alike, "Y'all got whole passel'a -- teenagers up in here." He's quietly self-congratulatory that he bit back the impulse to say "Millennials" instead. "Even if you don't got anyone here for your life, there's got to be reporters --" He stops cold. "What in tarnation." His eye sweeps back and forth before settling on Hive. << Get the hell out of my head >> does not sound much like his usual timbre of blustery curmudgeonry. It bristles instead with unreasoning fear as he replies, slow and measured. "The person you invited..." He's turning to look at the stage, nearly complete now. << Oh hell, no. >> Aloud, almost simultaneously, "Oh hell no. Least you coulda told me before you let Ryan Fucking Black make a fool of me. You know that ain't gon' end well for you, neither." The person Jax invited is about to be here. Ryan is, apparently, arriving not via hoverbike or glowing supplies-portal -- instead there's a light that is descending from the evening sky above. He's not dressed for stage yet but he is striking all the same in a black fishnet shirt that quiets the shimmer of gold lamé underneath, torn open in the back to accommodate intricate white gossamer wings, tattered and singed at the edges, a slender gold chainmaile belt slung low on his hips to frame black leggings dotted with shimmering stars, and chunky black ankle boots accented with golden sun buckles. The boots have had some also-gold hardware added aftermarket; it matches the cuffs he's wearing on his wrists and both boots and cuffs emit a radiant glow (... plenty identifiable to anyone familiar with the whole range of B's hovertech accessories) as he lowers himself neatly to Jax's side. "Reporters strictly prohibited," he's waggling a finger lazily in Hive's direction as he curls an arm around Jax's fiercely warm shoulders, "this ain't my first rodeo. He didn't let me do anything, this is a birthday party for a dear friend in a terrible fucking situation. If," he allows lightly, "you want to make a fool of yourself about it, that'll just be a little lagniappe. Could just enjoy the show, though." While Ryan is descending from on high, yet another swirl of purple light beside the stage disgorges Alma, who at a casual ambling pace ends up at the picnic table around the same time as Ryan. Tonight she's wearing a slim white three-piece suit, with neat diamond-shaped openings for inky black wings, birdlike but with knives (probably not real like those under her jacket) for pinions, each edged in gold, black dress boots with subtle gold accenting. The fine twists of her long hair are laced with gold, too, meticulously coiled at the back of her head and held in place with the glowing sun-tipped wand that identifies her as a solstice fairy event staff, and the gold kippah at her crown is embroidered with a bold black sunburst. "Happy birthday," she tells Jax before leveling a flat, unimpressed gaze at Fury. "There are worse things to be than a fool." Tag(?)'s eyes have gone just a little wider at Ryan's words, and though it's hard outwardly to tell at which part, internally reporters strictly prohibited is rotating in an oddly thoughtful contemplation. "Oh!" He's bouncing upright, up on his toes to press a peck to Jax's cheek. "Some of those fairies need some makeup adjustments -- save me a dance?" And then he's flitting off to disappear into the crowd. << -- it's like a half-passel of teenagers >> is just a little bitter in B's mind, but on the outside she's chipper-bright: "Oh yeah! There's more on the way, too, thanks for reminding me." B's smile is quick, closed-lipped, cheery. "You really should enjoy the show, my brother's great -- uh, not that you're not great too," she's adding hastily to Ryan, leaning in to bonk her forehead lightly against his arm, "and the jazz band after is fantastic if you like dancing." Though she sounds just a little skeptical of this last part as she looks over Fury And His Scowl. Does he like dancing? She'll leave this mystery for later -- she's dashing back off to her bike, probably to ferry more people, some of which may be teenagers, up to the revelry. Despite himself, Ryan's ridiculous entrance summons up something in Hive that is equal parts fondness in the exasperation. The telepath hasn't actually roused himself to watch it, but he's watching it all the same, through many (many) reflected stares from around the rooftop. Hive himself has scrunched his eyes closed like he's annoyed despite the fact his eyes weren't even aimed in Ryan's direction at the time, but there's a slow breath of laughter as the musician lands. "-- Half-passel of teenagers," he echoes, flat, a beat after B. He's sitting up as Tag (🤨) rabbits off, following the man's departure with a quiet huff. "They're carding. -- I actually can't get out your head 'less you want to leave the building, let us handle this party, would you feel better if I lied to you about it?" << I'm out your head now. >> His knuckles dig slow at his eyes. "If it makes you feel better, Ryan's people are real fucking good at chaos." Fury's eye narrows impossibly further. "It is a terrible fucking situation, and I'm real keen on making sure it don't get worse. I got nothing against throwing him a birthday party --" << Shit, best not poke him too hard, that boy crazy as a peach orchard boar >> "Just -- keep this rodeo under wraps." His eye skates back over to Hive, making a mental note to check back in with Fitzsimmons in desperate hope for something -- anything to keep his thoughts his own. << ...gotdamn telepaths... >> "I'm real glad folks are being so conscientious about underage drinking and all, but it's the TikTokking I'm worried about." << Shoulda left well enough alone about the kids, poor bastard can't catch a break. >> But it's Lucien he's thinking about, hovering uncertain before his desk. "It'd make me feel better if they were real fucking good at order. Now if you'll excuse me, there's a whole passel'a agents I gotta order back for a second shift." He turns on his heel and walks almost directly into an older man in a wheelchair, startled into a flustered "begging your pardon" before he reroutes to stalk off in proper curmudgeonly fashion. Neither Charles Xavier nor his wheelchair seem particularly offended for having interrupted Fury's dramatic exit. He is wearing a light gray suit, casual by his standards, and riding one of his sleeker powered chairs. "Well, that gentleman seems to be enjoying himself already," he says lightly, rolling to a stop. The warmth he emanates is soothing and altogether different from the waves of heat rolling off of Jax. "Many happy returns." There is a certain gravity to the way he says this, a wordless knowledge that he means more than "happy birthday". All the same, he's offering a large envelope sealed with a golden sun and addressed simply to "Jackson" in his elegant, flowing hand. "And a thousand apologies for not coming to you sooner. It wasn't for lack of concern, or encouragement." He glances aside and up at his companion, a little sheepishly. "There's something in the post for you, too, whenever it gets past the UN's puzzled scrutiny. But if there's anything I can do to assist tonight..." He doesn't look at Hive, but his offer to the younger telepath is more explicit, a skillful and matter-of-fact shifting aside of his shields. Scott Summers looks slightly embarrassed to be participating in Fury's frustration of the day; he gives him a sympathetic grimace as he sidesteps to let him pass, before falling back into step with Charles. Evidently he can't beat 'Many happy returns' as a birthday wish; after Charles has finished speaking, Scott gives Jax a more standard, "Happy birthday." His gift is in a plain brown Hallmark envelope, lettered somewhat less elegantly than the Professor's; as soon as it's been handed over, Scott is looking curiously around this birthday shindig, gaze stuttering on the teenagers trying to sneak booze. His mouth quirks silently; his thought is pitched for Charles to notice, though probably Hive can hear it too. << Get a wand, too. >> "Pretty sure he likes dancing." Jax is thinking back to a Mockingbird booth another lifetime ago, thinking back to twirling Ryan out on the familiar dancefloor -- he doesn't have time to get caught up in regret, Ryan's Very Splashy Entrance is pushing melancholy straight out of his mind. He tips his head up; his eye bugs cartoon-style out of his head with a briefly twinkling starry-eyed sparkle as Ryan descends. "I happen to know Ally'll be right excited about an intimate private Ryan Black concert." He curls his arm tight back around Ryan, squeezing hard. "Sugar, when you said a few of my closest friends, this --" -- the illusory twinkle has remained even if his eye has returned to its normal size when Charles and Scott arrive. "Gosh! Sure weren't all who I was expecting." He's giving Scott a bright smile, bouncing forward to lean in and curl an arm around Charles in hug before taking both his presents. "Thank you! Tonight sure is full of surprises. You know they put all this together without a word to me, was y'all in on it?" Inwardly he is fully unsure whether to think that his staid advisor or the dignified old Boomer were in on this nonsense; he absolutely would believe Either Way. "What you can do is enjoy yourselfs," << if it's possible, >> he's fretting inwardly, << we could all use it, >> and here he's thinking of Dawson's bright-warm smile in his scarred face, of his fierce determination to keep Tuesday Nights carved out for Game Night for years through so much chaos and pain; thinking of Ryan's long-long hours creating an online arts festival in the early pandemic days, thinking of songs sung with Spencer fierce and (joyful) (hurt) (defiant) at vigil marches, thinking of the kids coming back to homes quiet and empty and mourning or alive and full of love, thinking -- "-- there's plenty of booze," he's a little wry, here, "Ryan's payin'." He nudges Ryan with an elbow. "I assume." "It's fine," Hive kind-of-not-really rats out the kids nearby as Scott's gaze hitches on them, "Everett's getting good practice in. Probably take him like. Three solid more hours to get enough booze into that water to get even one of them tipsy. Probably won't stop them acting drunk earlier than that, though." His brows knit, and though his mind is reaching for Xavier's, it's Scott he's looking to Scott with a sudden frown. "-- he's not gonna explode that water, is he?" He's coiling firm roots, meanwhile, into the older man's mind with a smooth and seamless shift of identity-perspective that suddenly floods his|their awareness with an achingly familiar lightning-hypervigilant rapid-processing awareness of Every Mind not just here on the roof but down on the block below, out in Freaktown, out at the school, over in Chimaera, sorting at blinding speed through every request for entry and a complex array of desires and dangers and risks and needs before giving the okay to each of the transport crew. Where did the wand appear from. For most people it's probably hard to track the flicker-blink of motion, though Charles at least can feel Hive (rudely? Not rudely?) yoinking That Part Of Them over in a blur of teleportation from across the roof just long enough to drop a sunburst-wand onto Charles's lap. His "Thanks" is gruff, though through the vast forest that is them a warm glow of sun is shining, now. His head rolls back. Eyes roll, at Jax. "Liar. How long you known this crazy-ass dipshit and his theatrics. You were expecting exactly this." After a beat, he adds, with a nod towards Xavier, "Please. This motherfucker is paying now." "We're anarchists," Ryan's telling Fury with a fiercely cheerful grin, "if there's one thing we're real damn good at it's bringing order outta chaos." His brows have hiked when Xavier arrives, and it's Scott he addresses first, Louisiana roots laid on thick in his accent now where previously it had hewed far closer to a broadcast-neutral: "Well gar ici Scott Summers, I owe you one. Have you manage to get noted philanthropist Charles Xavier himself here to grace us with his presence? 'tween you and me if I had known what it took to wrangle a visit, I'd'a throwed Jax a birthday party each week, by now." Though he's given Scott a warm smile, it hews cutting-sharp when it turns to Xavier: "-- jail do get awful lonely -- but I know you gotta be a busy man up that school'a yourn, I'm sure." His arm has gone just a hair tighter around Jax for the moment before he releases his friend to his effusive greeting hug. Ryan's mind is bristling with protective ire the whole while. Possibly he might take Just A Smidge longer than Jax to forgive the tardiness of this visit, lavish presents notwithstanding. He does allow just a hint of amusement, slightly self-conscious, to soften his overprotective prickling, as he plucks Hive's lemonade for a sip. "Yeah? Well bless his heart, then, just tell me where I forward the bill." "-- I'd be very happy to talk about my research next time I'm visiting, L-- Fitz, would you excuse me." Kitty didn't actually take no for an answer before stepping breezily through the offending scientist and making her way to the knot of people around Jackson. Compared to everyone else, she's well underdressed -- oversized tee-shirt that is mottled with a variety of textures evoking bathroom tile, wood panelling, and floral wallpaper in patches, grey leggings. There's a drawstring bag on her back in a similar chaotic pattern to her shirt -- the only obvious cue she's a Friend of the Birthday Boy is the gold headband holding back her hair with squiggly sunburst lines emanating from it, and the fairy wand peeking out the top of her bag. Kitty comes up on Jax's free side, leaning in to hug her friend, tight and solid. "Happy birthday, sunshine -- Think I broke that little English guy's mind again," she says, wry, amused irritation sensible to the -paths among them, "can I stack that onto your actual present." She's rolled up just in time to hear Ryan speak to -- << hi Professor (hi dad) (Kitty be normal good lord) >> -- Charles, one eyebrow quirking up well before bless his heart can be deployed. "Huh. That's sweet -- late arrivals club going halvsies on the party. Probably you do not want to be calling the kettle black," is more squarely to Ryan, annoyance (at his past absences here and at Charles's absence, too) tempered by a broad blanket of affection towards most of the assembled, "that's probably, like, your own brand infringement. -- Alma," and this subject change is abrupt, the smile sudden and bright across her face, "you look incredible, are you working all night or can I actually get a dance in sometime?" << Just what we need right now at Xavier's, >> Scott is thinking, << instant-booze mutation. >> "Probably not. I'll keep an eye on it," he says, as much to Charles as to Hive, though he then pulls his eyes reluctantly away from Everett, settling on Ryan. There's a little irritation-indignation-amusement rising up as the raid team members address the Professor, a stray, hastily-smothered << they're not wrong (probably shouldn't say anything even if they were) >> that doesn't quite kill his defensiveness. He might feel more inclined (entitled?) to tell Kitty off, but -- another glance at the Professor, another silent decision to keep his trap shut where all of this who-visited-when stuff is concerned, and to flail back toward civil conversation. "I like the decorations," he says. "Very --" << sparkly >> "-- creative." As unflappable as she is, Alma still shakes her head when Fury storms off. "Not sure he's interested in dancing with freaks." She isn't sure he's not, either, and wonders how far Ryan -- or any of them -- could push before he'd put his foot down. "His loss." Her disdain for Charles and Scott is considerably milder, already tempered by the thought they might be good to have on hand if something went sideways, and mollified further by Jax's reaction. When Kitty admonishes Ryan she quietly adjusts her estimation of Time Until Drama, and though the prospect does not frighten her, she says a silent bracha that they've made it this far without incident. Maybe that's why Kitty's question catches her off guard, and her eyebrows tick up. "I'm working all night, but there are a lot of us here and we get breaks." She allows a slightly indulgent smile. "I'll save you a dance." "Alas, I can take no credit for this spectacle," says Charles, and despite his mild tone, the word "spectacle" feels distinctly positive. "But I may take some small credit after Ryan sends my accountant the bill, and I do intend to enjoy myself." He produces a business card and leans forward to pass it to Ryan. His warmth is like dappled sunlight now, and there is both contrition and concern in it. << Please be gentle with him, Kitty. Be gentle with yourself, too. >> "He can't explode the water," he adds, though Hive knew this without need for words the moment his mind became their. "At least not without help, and I trust you'll notice if the students get it in their heads to improvise a still." All the same, they are mentally noting those most likely to attempt such a thing (or other potentially disastrous shenanigans) out of the X-kids present. << They're not wrong, >> his agreement is quiet in Scott's mind, << and you needn't defend me, regardless, though I appreciate the sentiment. Tonight is for Jackson. >> He turns the sunburst wand over in his hands, his smile at the whimsical craftsmanship not altogether conscious. "They are lovely -- my compliments. I'm sure there's plenty more creativity yet to come." Ryan's brows hike right back at Kitty -- but it's with an easing of his smile, a dip of his head, and where warmth has been radiating from Charles there's a harmony now from Ryan, picking up that dappled-sun-warmth and twisting it into a playful violin trill that dances between them with a burst of lighthearted amusement before it dissipates into the bustle of the set-up. "Shiiiit," Ryan drawls, taking Charles's card, "can you sing? Guess my publicist would be pretty pissed if I tried turning the whole shebang over at this stage of the game." He tucks the card away, spreads his arms wide. "Thanks," is to the compliments on the decorations, "Had a whole army of artists to help out. Eat! Drink! Be Merry! -- especially you," he's saying this to Alma, brightly, "I'll hold off on dying till tomorrow." It's Sunlight^3, a flutter-glow when Kitty comes in for a hug that Jax returns fierce. "Oh gosh FitzSimmons gonna be having a constant freakout all night long, I think, they don't hardly know what to do with any of us let alone -- oh gosh don't nobody let slip nothin' 'bout Scott, okay, I jus' been letting 'em think the glasses is because he thinks he's way too cool for everyone." His internal Caution Levels are making vague quiet adjustments at Kitty's admonishment and just as quickly adjusting them back at that light trill. "Boy don't even joke." His bap is light, his tone is light, his thoughts -- well. He's doing a quick but thorough assessment of his layers of bright-illusory makeup, the touchups to the scars that warp his tattoos, leaning in to the parts of him better practiced at psionic shielding and plain Not ADHD Mental Discipline. Looping that playful violin trill until it sinks in, looping his arm through Kitty's. Leaning into Ryan's and smiling. Bright. "Y'all. Thanks for coming," and here it's not forced, not illusion, just a warm gratitude in the words. "Sure did brighten my day."